Fourth reFloresta Journey
When we arrived in Anã, we were met with sincere affection, a genuine welcome, and looks that invited us to listen deeply and be fully present. At the very start of our experience, Dona Odila — a respected leader of the community — shared her story, memories, and emotions. Her words wove together smiles and pain, experiences and silences, prompting us to reflect on privilege and inequality. Listening to Dona Odila was an invitation to open not only our ears but also our hearts.
The journey to Anã, crossing the waters of the Tapajós and Arapiuns rivers, already carried a symbolic meaning. For many of us, crossing the river was also crossing inner boundaries. The sky, the forest, and the river formed a landscape that went beyond mere scenery — it became a sensory and spiritual encounter. This awakening of wonder in our eyes reminded us all how to see, feel, and admire anew.
The Puxirum
During this journey, a long-held dream of the community finally came true. Since the 3rd Journey, the idea of building a small square had been alive, and it was through the puxirum that this dream was realized. Together, volunteers and residents joined in a collective act of care, unity, and presence. More than just toys and structures, the square became a space of life, meeting, and continuity between generations.
As the wood for the seesaw was being set and the swings took shape, lines of children were already forming, eager to try the new playthings. No sooner were the toys finished than they were already in use. Seeing the square come alive the very day it was built reminded us of the power held in small but meaningful achievements. The joy was immediate, intense, and shared by all.
The puxirum was more than a workforce; it was an act of belonging. Each of us contributed what we knew, learned what we didn’t, and realized that being together doesn’t mean losing ourselves — it means strengthening one another. Knowledge flowed freely, listening was equal and open, and working side by side was filled with affection. Learning to weave straw for the roof was also learning how to weave relationships, restore bonds, and care for the land as an extension of our own bodies.
Learnings
Throughout our journey, we immersed ourselves in the community’s practices and ways of life. We learned from Seu Audair about the territory, from Leandro about daily work, from Dona Neuza about collective organization, from Eliza about resistance and activism, from Luciano about community tourism, from Seu Danilo about theater and the living memory of local culture, and from Dona Nara about the daily care and strength of the women of the forest.
We understood that Anã is not simply a place surrounded by rivers and trees, but a territory of struggle, wisdom, and survival. The standing forest is sustained by the hands and knowledge of those who live in it and defend it. Tourism, fish farming, beekeeping, and many other practices are part of a collective project of permanence and dignity.
The nights in Anã revealed the power of culture. Cultural Night became a landmark, with children dancing carimbó, theatrical performances, joke contests, and abundant laughter. The sparkle in the eyes of residents and visitors reflected what is built within a community. Amidst material simplicity, an abundance of affection, knowledge, and bonds emerged. In this small community, far from urban centers, a rare richness shone — the richness of shared life.
Our experience in Anã allowed us to rediscover enchantments long dormant: picking mangoes from the tree, resting in hammocks under the moonlight, listening to stories carried by the wind. Body and territory ceased to be separate concepts and became part of a whole. Living there was more than surviving — it was feeling intensely, being whole.
When it came time to say goodbye, the waters of the Arapiuns welcomed our overflowing emotions. Longing was evident in hugs and lingering glances. We weren’t just saying farewell to a place, but to people who had marked our journey with generosity and strength. We left with the certainty that beneath the forest, there are people. People who dream, endure, teach, and care.
The 4th Journey closed as a cycle of genuine exchanges, profound learning, and restored belonging. It reminded us that the Amazon pulses through its people, and that once we leave, we are forever changed.
During the journey, a collective poem was born, expressing in moving words the experience of Anã. One passage reads: "Muanã was both father and mother / a serpent of dawn / a lamp of night/a mischievous child / Muanã made me cry / Muanã gestated the forest / the contraction of life /and gave birth to the sea of the Arapiuns River / gave birth to people / gave birth to art / Muanã made me smile / and breathed the emergence of Anã.” Written by Panassol from the group’s experiences, this poem symbolized the spirit of the territory and the rebirth each of us carried when returning home.
